N.
The hand holding the note shakes.
Not with fear—With adrenaline.
With something colder than rage.
I tear the paper in half and pace back into the centre of the room.
My boots echo. The light swings again. The chair creaks.
This is a fucking performance. And I’m in it.
I pull out my knife and stab it into the wooden seat where the photo had been.
Splinters snap from the force.
“Come out,” I snarl into the dark. “You want a game? I’ll play. But understand this—” I raise my voice. “I’m not like you.” A pause. “I’m worse.”
No response. Just that creaking light, swaying like it’s laughing.
I grab the photo again and turn it over.
Another message, scrawled on the back in the same red ink:
She used to hum in her sleep.
Still does.
You hear it now because I taught her to.
My fingers curl until the photo tears in half.
I don’t scream. I don’t run. I don’t panic.
I smile.
Because now it’s not a question ofifI find him.
It’s a countdown.
I leave the warehouse with the torn photo in my pocket and murder sitting heavy in my chest.
Outside, the wind cuts across the gravel like razors.
The docks are empty. Too empty. Not even the usual late-night drifters. Not even the dogs.
It’s like the whole fucking world knows something’s about to break.
I climb into the car and throw open the folder on the passenger seat—the one I keep for her. The one I’ve never let even her see.
Photos. Notes. Dates. Patterns.
But now I’m looking for something else.
Signs I missed.
I replay every camera feed. Every delivery to her door. Every time she looked over her shoulder in the dark—not when she knew I was watching. Before.
